6. Sean
SIX
SEAN
Practice kicked my ass today. It was all fine until the coach said we needed to do extra drills. Fuck that shit. Then I had to expertly avoid Will and Camila and their need to feed me like I’m some child incapable of survival. Once I was in the car, I thought I was golden until the texts came in.
Will
Coward.
Now I have to convince my wife that you had other plans for dinner.
At the red light, I respond.
Sean
Stop trying to feed me.
Will
Then feed yourself, would ya? Do me a solid and look like you’re a functioning adult so she’ll get off my nuts.
Strike that… she can stay on my nuts.
Sean
You freaky bastard.
Up four floors in the elevator, and when I step out, all I can think about is how today is Wednesday and I should be fasting, but I had a protein bar in the locker room, so I fucked that up already. Tonight, I’ll just order a fish curry for dinner and call it good.
I pull out my phone and see the notifications from my family group text.
Mom
Sean are you going to be coming home Easter?
David
Ohhh, is the hotshot ballplayer going to grace us with his presence this holiday?
Sam
Bet I can still send a ball further than you.
James
Sam… you’re 40… your knees pop when you get up from prayer during Mass… I doubt it.
Leeann
How am I related to you guys?
Dad
Bring your glove with you, Seany… We’ll show’em why you play in the majors.
Mom
Father Randell would probably love if you’d help usher for Easter Mass.
And that’s enough of that.
At my door, I unlock the knob and slide the key into the deadbolt, and when it doesn’t turn, I realize I forgot to lock it.
Again. Oops.
I push the door open and get hit with the scent of detergent, which reminds me I need to fold the load that’s been sitting in the dryer for, like, two days.
Citrus from the air freshener, and something else warm and familiar: cologne, confidence, and the kind of calm that always makes me want to swing.
My heartbeat slams once, hard.
No.
I turn around and there he is.
Shoes off like he owns the place, sitting in my chair like he’s been here a hundred times. Elbows on his knees. Hands clasped. Hat backwards, regular joggers, tight light gray shirt. Emiliano Guerrero looks up at me like he’s been waiting for the exact second I’d walk in.
Like this is the inning he wanted.
“Took you long enough, Cobre,” he says, his voice calm and smug. “Now we can really talk.”
For half a second, I just stare because my brain tries to reboot like a computer from the 90s. It tries to compute that the Mets ace flew across the entire country on an off day to sit on my couch.
To corner me and force me to talk about… whatever this is.
Anger hits immediately, probably turning my neck and face bright red.
“You’re in my apartment,” I say, like the words are evidence.
Emiliano’s mouth tilts. “You’re observant, aren’t you?”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” My voice cracks on the last word because it’s not just anger. It’s panic. “How did you even get in?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “We should really talk about your lack of security around here. It’s a bit alarming, actually.”
I blink. “I know for a fact I locked this door.”
Emiliano lifts one eyebrow. The kind that says, “Are you sure?”
Shit.
Maybe I left the whole thing unlocked.
No! I know I locked that door before I left this morning.
Stepping forward, my duffel thudding to the floor. “You can’t just show up here.”
“You can’t just disappear.” Emiliano’s gaze stays steady.
“That’s not the same thing,” I snap.
He leans back slightly, relaxed, like he’s not in enemy territory.
Like he’s not sitting in the living room of a man who’s half a breath away from losing his shit.
“I know it’s not,” he says. “But when you stop answering my texts and pretend I don’t exist, it hurts.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides. The urge to bark and bite and throw a punch rises up like it always does when I’m scared. If I’m angry, I don’t have to be honest.
“You’re insane,” I say.
Emiliano’s smile turns slow. “Maybe.”
I glare at him. “You flew here.”
“Yes.”
“You flew across the country because I didn’t text you back.” That’s unhinged behavior and I really should contemplate calling the cops.
“No.”
The word lands heavier than I expect.
He stands up and crosses the space between us, not rushed. Not aggressive. Just controlled. Like he’s taking the mound. Like he’s choosing pace, choosing distance.
He inches closer, and I don’t back up, because I’m not giving him that. But I can’t stop my body from locking up. This is the part that always ruins me. Not his cocky mouth. Not his smug wins. Not even the sex.
It’s the way he can be calm while I’m falling apart.
“It wasn’t the texts,” he says quietly. “It was the running.”
I swallow. “Don’t act like you know me,” I snap, because that’s safer than the truth.
Emiliano stops an arm’s length away.
“Then tell me,” he says, voice low. “Tell me why you ran when I tried to kiss you.”
All this over a stupid kiss.
I glare at his shoulder instead of his face because eye contact feels too intimate right now.
“It was nothing,” I lie.
Emiliano exhales through his nose like he expected that. “No.”
I flinch. “Stop saying no like you’re my dad.”
His expression flickers for half a second, and something passes behind his eyes. Understanding.
Then it’s gone.
“I’m not your dad,” he says carefully. “I’m not your priest and I’m not here to judge you, Sean.”
I laugh, sharp and ugly. “Yeah, okay.”
Emiliano’s jaw tightens. “Sean.”
The way he says my name makes my skin prickle. It’s not in a teasing way or a taunt.
More like a tether.
“Don’t,” I warn, my voice rough.
“Don’t what?” he asks, like I’m already exhausting him.
“Don’t say my name like that,” I snap. “Don’t act like we’re… like it’s… like it means something.”
Emiliano’s gaze doesn’t move. “It does mean something.”
My chest burns, and I shove past him toward the kitchen like I need distance, like air will fix it. I yank the fridge open and stare into it like the empty space is going to somehow solve my sexuality.
It does not.
Emiliano follows me into the kitchen, leaning against the far counter, giving me space but making sure he’s still present.
“You need to eat,” he says.
I slam the fridge door harder than necessary. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?” he asks, calmly.
“Stop acting like you get to take care of me,” I hiss.
Emiliano’s mouth tilts. “I’m not taking care of you. I’m telling you to eat because you look like shit. I don’t know if you know this, but I’m not into the whole ‘starvation to atone for my sins’ look.”
Is he fucking with me right now?
I glare. “I’m fine. I ate a protein bar at practice.”
“You’re not,” he says. “And a protein bar doesn’t replace every meal you’ve skipped.”
I hate him. I hate him so much.
Because he’s right.
The son of a bitch can see through me like I’m glass.
So, being the smart ass I am, I grab a protein shake, twist it open, take a sip, and immediately regret it.
But I’m committed to it now.
Emiliano watches me drink it like it’s a victory, like he just got me to comply with something. It makes my temper spike again.
“Happy?” I spit.
He nods once. “A little. I’d feel better if it was food you actually had to chew… but the night’s still young.”
I want to throw the bottle at his head; instead, I take another sip like a stubborn child just to prove I can.
Emiliano’s gaze drifts to the coffee table, eyes on the rosary I left there.
My throat tightens.
He looks back at me, his voice softer now. “Is that why?”
Everything in me freezes.
“No,” I say too fast.
Emiliano’s eyebrows lift. “You don’t have to lie to me, Cobre.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap.
He doesn’t flinch. “Why not? You let me call you that when you’re pressed against a fence. Or when I have you face down—”
“Okay… I get it.” Heat crawls up my neck.
My body reacts. My mind flashes back to the chain-link fence and his fingers laced with mine, anchoring me to the moment with him.
“Fuck you,” I mutter.
“Maybe later,” he says, smirking like he’s accepting an offering. “I’d rather talk to you this way.”
Sex is easy with him.
Sex is simple. It’s rage, heat, control, and release. It’s a place where I can pretend I’m not making a choice because it’s just bodies.
It’s not love.
It’s not a kiss or us sharing our feelings.
I see the shift in his eyes, and he sees mine too. My mouth opens before my brain can stop it.
“This is a bad idea,” I say.
Emiliano’s gaze drifts to my mouth. “Yeah.”
I swallow. “So you should probably leave.”
He steps closer anyway, and my heart kicks like it wants to jump out of my throat and run for me.
His voice drops, soft and dangerous. “If you really want me to leave, say it.”
My body leans into him instead of pulling back. I hate that I want to grab his shirt and pull him into me and bite down on my own panic until it shuts up.
Emiliano watches me like he already knows.
“You’re going to try to do it again,” he says quietly.
My brows knit. “Do what?”
He holds my gaze, and his steadiness makes me want to crawl out of my skin. “You’re going to try to use sex to avoid talking.”
My face burns. “That’s not what I’m doing,” I lie.
“Sure it’s not. You’re just standing there, breathing hard the closer I get to you, panting while you undress me with those pretty green eyes of yours.”
I step closer to him, and whisper, “You don’t know what I’m doing. I could be getting ready to sock you in the face.”
“Bring it on then, pretty boy. We both know we like it when it’s rough.” Emiliano doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch me, just stands there, letting me crowd him like a challenge. The scent of his cologne hits me, a little sweet and a little spicy, and it makes all the warning bells in my head go off.
“Tell me,” he says again, voice low. “Why did you run from me?”
I try to think of a way to turn it into a joke, but it dies on my tongue.
I try to get angry, but it fizzles out when his brown eyes look into mine. The truth is sitting right there, sharp and ugly and impossible to swallow.
“Because a kiss means something,” I admit, voice barely there.
“Yeah.” Emiliano’s eyes soften. “That’s usually the case.”
“And I can’t…” I swallow hard. “I can’t do something that means something.”
His brows draw together. “Why?”
My laugh comes out broken. “Because I don’t know what that makes me.”
Emiliano steps closer, slow and careful. He still doesn’t touch me because he’s giving me space to breathe.
“It makes you human,” he says.
I shake my head hard. “No.”
“It makes you scared,” he corrects.
My chest burns. “You don’t understand.”
Emiliano’s voice drops lower. “Then make me understand.”
I stare at him, throat tight, eyes stinging like I’m about to cry, and that’s humiliating too.
“My family,” I say, like the word is a wound. “They’re… they’re Catholic. Irish Catholic. Like, the kind where everyone knows everyone and shame is basically a hobby.”
Emiliano’s expression doesn’t change; he just listens. I keep going because if I stop, I’ll lose it.
“I’m the youngest out of six boys,” I say. “I’ve got brothers who would… I don’t know. They’d probably protect me the best way they could, but my parents…” My throat tightens. “My parents are good people and that’s the problem. Good people still get disappointed.”
Emiliano’s jaw tightens. “And you think they’ll just stop loving you—”
I swallow hard.
“—Because you want to be with a man?”
I don’t answer, because the answer is yes.
Emiliano’s eyes flick to my rosary again, then back to me.
“They taught you love has conditions,” he says quietly, and my chest aches so badly it feels like someone grabbed my heart and squeezed.
I whisper, “Yeah.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Emiliano finally reaches out, slowly, and touches my wrist. I flinch, but he doesn’t tighten his grip. He waits.
He’s warm and steady.
“You’re not dirty, Sean,” he says softly.
Don’t you fucking cry, Sean.
“And a kiss isn’t a sin,” he adds. “It’s just… honesty.”
I shake my head, panic rising. “You just don’t get it.”
Emiliano’s grip stays gentle. “I do get it. I’m Catholic too.”
My eyes snap to his. “Then why are you not…” I gesture helplessly. “Why are you not like this?”
The way his mouth tilts hits me, because it isn’t smug now. It’s sad.
“Because my family taught me God with warmth,” he says. “Not punishment. I grew up with a priest who preached about love and acceptance. I don’t think yours was the same.”
It wasn’t.
“And because I decided a long time ago,” he continues, “I’m not letting anyone else tell me my worth.”
He pauses, voice lower.
“I want you,” he says. “And I’m not ashamed of that.”
The words land like a punch, and my body goes hot. My brain goes cold.
Wanting me out loud sounds terrifying because it means this is real.
That we’re two men who want to be with each other, and the whole world could see that.
I want to be with him.
Emiliano steps closer again, sliding his hand from my wrist to my palm, fingers curling around mine. Not lacing this time, just holding.
“I’m not here to force you out,” he says, like he knows my fear. “I’m here to stop you from disappearing into the hole you’ve dug yourself into.”
I swallow hard, voice shaking. “And what if I can’t stop?”
Emiliano’s gaze holds mine, steady as the mound.
“Then I’ll keep showing up,” he says simply. “If that’s what you want.”
I hate him. I want him. I’m terrified of him.
I’m relieved he’s here.
It’s too much, and as Emiliano’s thumb strokes once over my knuckles.
I want to break down, to fall into his arms and just let it all go.
“Talk to me,” he murmurs.
My voice comes out small. “I don’t know how.”
He leans in slightly, not for a kiss, but just close enough that I feel his breath on my neck.
“You’re doing it right now,” he says.